


Doubt

by civilisationsofpurethought



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fic Exchange, Gen, Mystery, Post-Reichenbach, johnlockchallenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilisationsofpurethought/pseuds/civilisationsofpurethought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Johnlock Gift Exchange, for tumblr user bright-wings.<br/>Prompt: John gets kidnapped and returned, but only Sherlock can see that it's not his John- or can he? Any rating.<br/>See end for warnings, as they involve spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubt

     Three months, twelve days, and seventeen hours.  John has been missing for three months, twelve days, and seventeen hours. Sherlock Holmes’s mind dutifully computes this fact, and he grits his teeth, leaning against the counter, kettle boiling, wishing that it would just _stop._ It had been an involuntary response at first- computing the exact amount of time he’d been alone- and in the beginning, Sherlock had merely deduced that his blogger had picked up a girl at some bar and gone back to her home. Night had passed, as did the next morning, afternoon, evening, and every one after that for three months, twelve days, and seventeen hours. He is alone. He is going mad. He cannot stop.

 

\-----

 

     “Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what to tell you,” Lestrade says, on day twenty alone. He sighs and places his head in his hands, trying to avoid eye contact with the hurt detective across his desk.  “We’ve got nothing. And I do mean _nothing._ It can’t possibly be a kidnapping, there would be evide-“ He is cut off.

     “It _is_ a kidnapping,” Sherlock asserts, voice low, eyes flashing. “John wouldn’t leave. Not like this.”

     Lestrade looks up at the younger man, both empathy and doubt obvious in his eyes. “We’re doing the best we can,” he replies, softly.

     Sherlock leans forward, one hand clenching the edge of the detective inspector’s desk. “It’s not good enough,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

     Lestrade exhales after a moment and shakes his head, looking down once more, searching for words to console this man that he’d picked up off the street years ago. He had recovered from so much: abuse, addiction, affliction. Surely this impossible almost-son of his would see the truth, accept it, and move on.  John had, for whatever reason, left him. “I’m sorry.”

           

\-----

 

            Day forty-three alone. Sherlock has tried everything. He has bribed, blackmailed, and bullied his way into every police record, every prison, and every location that John had so much as driven by in his life.  He has checked, rechecked, and obsessed over every detail, every memory surrounding John’s disappearance. He hasn’t gone so undercover or worked so fervently since he had faked his own death and was tracking down Moriarty’s men. Still nothing. No evidence. The police have found no trace of John, and have realized that he couldn’t possibly have just run away from his chaotic London life. It was as if he had simply disappeared off the face of the planet. They had stuffed John’s file into a cupboard, marked it as unsolved. Lestrade and Donovan had visited the flat yesterday. They had tried to tell Sherlock that his long-last flat mate was more than likely dead. The consulting detective had screamed at them for that, and had indeed scared them both, brave as they attempted to appear. John wasn’t dead. John couldn’t be dead. For the first time in his life, Sherlock blatantly ignored the obvious. He rejected cold, harsh reality, locked away the small voice of ration in his mind that said Lestrade and Donovan were right, and substituted his own reality instead: a reality that was based on false hopes and unfounded faith. He doesn’t sleep that night. He stares at the ceiling, wishing fervently that he could just delete John Hamish Watson from his mind entirely and have this agony- this heart wrenching, horrifying pain- gone for good.

 

\-----

 

            Day eighty-one alone. Sherlock has returned to his old addictions. Needles and cigarette cartons litter the floor of his bedroom. He hasn’t taken a case in months, and the highs aren’t nearly as satisfying as he recalled. Instead of helping him to forget about his long-lost flat mate, they intensify the memories, encasing him in a hellish swirl of sensory details. Everywhere he looks, he sees John. John dying. John making tea. John sleeping on the couch. John looking up with wide eyes at Sherlock, asking why he hadn’t found him yet, why he hadn’t saved him. Sherlock, inebriated, retreats to other defense mechanisms he hasn’t employed since his teenaged years and early twenties; mechanisms that do far more harm than good. John frowning at him. John begging him to stop. John holding his hand as he lost consciousness, blood staining Mrs. Hudson’s favorite area rug.

 

\-----

 

Day eighty-two alone. Whispers travel like wildfire at the Scotland Yard. “Irresponsible,” says Donovan, with a sneer. “Out of control,” Lestrade admits with a frown and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. “Insane,” Anderson mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes. Everyone knows that he’s fallen back into his old ways, and no one talks about why. John’s file collects dust, and Sherlock is no longer begged to come to various crime scenes.

 

            Sherlock wakes in the all-too-familiar west wing of Mycroft’s extravagant home, bandages on his arms and throbbing in his head. He is lectured and held there until the eldest Holmes sibling has deemed it appropriate for Sherlock to return to Baker Street. When he once again walks through the door of 221B, it is day one hundred and one alone, and he is rapidly losing his impractical, unfounded hope.

 

\-----

 

Day one hundred and five alone. Three months, twelve days, twenty-three hours, and seventeen minutes, to be quite exact. Sherlock sits in front of a crackling fireplace, idly plucking at the strings of his violin, trying desperately not to compute the amount of time he’d spent alone. Christmas carolers sing roughly three houses down, cars speed down the street, and the cheerful pedestrians chat with one another while passing the flat. His mobile rings, and he glances down at it. Lestrade. Sherlock scowls down at the small, glowing screen as if it has done him personal harm, and lets it ring out. He repeats this once more before an exasperated detective inspector texts him, wishing that this mad man would for once behave like an adult.

 

You were right. Bart’s, room 521. Come immediately. –GL

 

\-----

 

            Sherlock arrives at Saint Bartholomew’s in record time, dashing out of the flat and into a cab without so much as a coat on. He brushes past the receptionist and takes the stairs to the fifth floor two at a time, locating room 521 as quickly as possible. The door is closed, the blinds are drawn, and Lestrade is looming outside of the room, one eyebrow raised at Sherlock. “He’s in there?” Sherlock asked, urgently. His heart rate had profoundly increased, though he wasn’t quite sure if it was from anxiety or physical exertion.

            Lestrade eyes him warily. “Yes, but he’s not exactly…” Sherlock completely ignores whatever was going to be said and brushes past Lestrade, pushing his way into the room. He freezes in the doorway, breath caught in his lungs, eyes wide. John is there, alright, but something is horribly, horribly wrong. Sherlock’s long-lost blogger is covered in lacerations and bruises of startling size and severity, his left arm is in a cast, he has stitches on his forehead, and he is staring back at Sherlock with distant, haunted eyes. He had been found merely an hour ago, left in the median of a major roadway, completely unconscious.

            “John,” Sherlock says, barely audible, letting out a breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He takes a hesitant step forward, as if he expects his former flat mate to disappear into thin air once more.

            John, however, is perfectly corporeal, and remains put. “Hello,” he says, simply, attempting a small grin, wincing in pain. Sherlock sighs in relief and closes the distance between them in four swift strides, placing a hand on John’s shoulder.

            “I thought that you were dead,” he says, softly, voice laced with emotion. John returns his awe-filled gaze.

            “So did I.” 

 

\-----

 

            Sherlock wakes with a start the next morning, sitting up in bed. Dawn. Bright light streaming in through the windows, the café next door bustling with early risers buying cheap coffee and tea. Day one hundred and six alone.  No, no, that wasn’t correct, he realizes, quickly remembering the events of last night. It is day one together again.

            He rises, dresses, and within a quarter hour is in a cab to visit John. His flat mate is battered, bruised, and scarred, both physically and mentally, but all in all, his prognosis is good. He should be out of the hospital in two weeks, if all goes well.

            Sherlock arrives, nodding at the receptionist as he passes to the lift. He dutifully remains at John’s side, gathering information and helping the police fill out reports. John describes his kidnappers and their location as best he can, but offers no explanation whatsoever as to why he had been stolen away. The officers don’t push, and they leave within two hours. Sherlock brings John a cup of his favorite Earl Grey tea, which John tries and wrinkles his nose at, setting it aside. Sherlock arches an eyebrow at this, but writes it off and dutifully listens to the idiotic nurse’s instructions on how to care for him once he’s returned home.

 

\-----

 

            Day fourteen together again; their first day back at Baker Street. “John,” Sherlock says, seated in the living room, barely looking up from his computer.. “Will you make tea?”

 “Er, sure,” John responds, and Sherlock can hear him putting the kettle on and opening and closing various cupboards before sighing popping his head around the corner. “Sherlock, where do we keep the tea bags?”

     Sherlock arches an eyebrow at John. “I haven’t moved them. In the cupboard above the oven,” he responds. John’s wounds are somewhat healed, his limp had vanished in a near-miraculous amount of time, and they are once again swept up into the world of criminals and cases. John doesn’t speak of his time gone, or of his kidnapping. Sherlock plays along, and pretends that it had never happened, but he knows that John isn’t the same. He can’t quite place a finger on it, but something is just a bit off about his faithful blogger. Emotional trauma, he supposes. Only Ella, John’s therapist, knew the extent of what had happened in the three months and twelve days that he’d been missing, and Sherlock suspected that he didn’t even tell her all of the story. The kidnappers had been caught, put on trial, and though they had insisted that they’d never seen John in their lives, were found guilty and arrested. Finally, some semblance of justice, after scrambling at empty evidence for months. It should be perfect, and yet something is wrong. Lestrade insists that he just needs time to readjust, to find his footing once again.

           

\-----

 

Day forty together again. Sherlock glances up from his microscope as John enters the kitchen with a yawn. “PTSD not bothering you then, I see,” he observes, wryly, and John pales.

            “How do you mean?” The army doctor asks, shuffling over to the counter and turning their electric kettle on.

            “Nightmares,” Sherlock replied, looking down at his research once more. “Or, more precisely, the lack thereof. You used to wake up shouting, and we both pretended that I couldn’t hear you, but you’ve been sleeping soundly.” He looks up, arching a brow at his flat mate.

            “Right, well,” John says, with a shrug. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?”

            That night, he does, in fact, wake up shouting.

 

\-----

 

            Day forty-three together again. For the first time in his life, Sherlock is completely wrong about a case. He waves a hand in dismissal as Lestrade tells him this. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am not wrong. As usual, your incompetent forensics team and lack of logic have failed to see the obvio-“

            But his sentence is cut short by the Detective Inspector. “Sherlock, we have a surveillance video. Your suspect did not kill Emma Calvert. Anderson’s initial suspect did.”

            Sherlock opens his mouth to protest and say exactly how ridiculous that premise was, but Lestrade sighs and spins his laptop around, playing a grainy surveillance tape that showed Miss Calvert being brutally killed by the man that the consultant had declared innocent.

            Sherlock shuts his mouth, his lips forming a tight line. He stands and turns on his heel, popping his coat collar as he wordlessly and furiously exits the Yard and returns home.

 

\-----

 

            “Look, I don’t want to say it, but Sherlock is growing incompetent,” a forensics team member tells Lestrade on day seventy-eight together again. “He’s gotten the past four cases completely wrong. And I mean _completely._ A twelve year old could have seen through the jewelry store robbery. He’s losing his touch. It was only a matter of time, what with his mental state.”

            Lestrade feels a horrible mixture of guilt and resignation pooling in his stomach. “His mental state?” He echoes.

            “You’ve seen him. He’s in a codependent relationship with that Watson bloke. He’s depressed, he abuses various substances, he’s sociopathic, and let’s not forget that self-harming incident. He’s always been screwed up in the head. He’s losing his mind, in the most literal sense of the expression.”

            Lestrade listens to this, and his heart drops. A heavy silence falls between them before he finally sighs and puts his head in his hands. Not this. Not Sherlock. Not again. “Fine,” he finally says, voice muffled by his hands. “I’ll keep an eye on him, alright? I’m just going to give him another chance. And don’t look at me like that, you _know_ what happened the last time we doubted him. If he worsens, I’ll take him off cases for good.”

           

\-----

 

            Day eighty together again, and Sherlock still cannot shake the feeling that something is horribly, horribly wrong. John is… Off. Somehow, he is, and Sherlock cannot figure out for the life of him how. Whatever it is, it’s too subtle to name, but clearly wrong, as if someone has entered the flat and moved every piece of furniture one inch to the left. At first, Sherlock had thought that John had suffered some sort of brain damage. Various things didn’t add up. Little habits had changed, like which shoe John put on first, how much milk he put in his tea, and which side of the couch he sat on. However, all big details were there; memories, major mannerisms, and unique, obvious quirks that were clearly John.

            “Do you remember how the night after I returned you came home drunk and tried to kiss me?” Sherlock asks casually that night, seated in his usual armchair, feigning interest in a newspaper folded in his lap.

John spills his cup of tea. “What?” He splutters, looking over at Sherlock with wide eyes, almost as if he were a deer in the headlights, regaining his composure after a split second.

“I realize that we agreed to never speak of it again,” Sherlock continues as if he hadn’t noticed John’s reaction. “And to the date, we never have. But for whatever reason, I seem to be remembering it more and more frequently,” he continues, mentally taking notes on this little experiment.

“Yeah. No, yeah, of course I remember,” John says, clearing his throat as he grabs a rag and cleaned up his tea, voice even. “Well, somewhat. I was drunk, after all.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says with a slight nod, absentmindedly pretending to study an article on various pop singers. “Do you remember what you said to me the next morning?”

John pauses, and a thick silence falls between them as he straightens up, crossing to the kitchen and setting the rag in the sink, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. “Not really. It was quite some time ago, after all,” he says, dismissively.

“You said, ‘Yeah, well of course I bloody well kissed you. I missed you, you idiot, and when someone dies, they tend to be romanticized. Flaws are forgotten, good traits are exaggerated, and I fancied myself with a little bit of a crush on you. I dunno, it was stupid and God knows I’d kill myself if I ever were in a relationship with you, because you’re really quite annoying, so don’t get all weird on me because I told you that. Now where the hell did you put the aspirin?’”

John freezes momentarily, before clearing his throat and looking up at Sherlock, one eyebrow raised. “That’s a very detailed quote, for something that happened years ago.”

“It was a very meaningful quote,” Sherlock responds, setting the newspaper down on the coffee table, mind spinning. The feeling that something is wrong has just become a hundred times worse, and dread is pooling in his stomach. “I suppose it’s just been on my mind lately. I’m going to run to Tesco, do you need anything?” He asks, throwing on his coat.

“No,” John responds, after a moment. “I’m good, thanks.” And Sherlock heads out the door without further explanation.

 

\-----

 

Something is wrong with John. –SH

Sherlock, I’ve told you, he just needs time to adjust. –GL

No. This is different. He’s not himself. –SH

He was kidnapped and violently tortured for three and a half months. He’s going to act differently. –GL

He doesn’t remember saying something to me. –SH

What, a specific conversation? –GL

Sherlock, you’re paranoid. Not everyone can remember everything they’ve ever said in a casual conversation. Maybe you should talk to a therapist about this. –GL

I don’t _need_ a therapist. And it’s not just a passing comment that he’s forgotten. It’s a highly significant confession that we agreed to keep secret. –SH

I don’t see your point, Sherlock. Are you trying to tell me something? –GL

He’s not John. –SH

What, physically? –GL

Obviously. –SH

Sherlock, I’m sorry, but you need help. That man is John Watson. For God’s sakes, no one else could be such a spitting image of him, and we even have his blood work on file. It all matches. –GL

The blood work’s been tampered with, then. He’s been acting off since he came back. I know John Watson, and this man isn’t him. –SH

Sherlock, listen. You’re just stressed about getting these cases wrong. You’re overexerting your mind. –GL

I most certainly am not. I know what I’m talking about, Lestrade. –SH

I want you to take some time off, Sherlock. A lot of time off. See a therapist or a doctor, get this- whatever the hell _this_ is- sorted out, and then we’ll talk. –GL

 

\-----

 

            Day ninety-one together again. Sherlock wakes up, and there is a sealed envelope resting on his nightstand that most certainly was not there the night before. He sits up, scanning the room. He is alone. He reaches over, studying the envelope. Thick paper, heavy weight, well made, obviously expensive. Likely matched the paper inside. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and carefully opens it, removing the letter inside.

 

Seems that someone’s been doubting dear little Johnny.

If you want answers, come and play.

The Pool. Midnight. Bring no one.

 

\-----

 

            “Going out?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow at John that night, who is looking in the mirror and attempting to tidy his hair up.

            “Yeah, I’ve got a date right about now,” John responds, mildly, turning to face Sherlock. “Since when do you notice if I leave?”

            Sherlock hums mildly in response, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Best go, then. It’s nearly nine.”

            “Right. See you, then,” John said, throwing on his coat and heading out the door. Sherlock sighs and heads into his long-lost flat mate’s room, crossing to his desk and searching for his gun.

 

\-----

 

            Three hours later, Sherlock takes a step into the all-familiar pool, footsteps echoing with each hit on the tile. The few lights that are on flicker, and the water is eerily still. John’s gun feels heavy in his pocket, and he glances down at his watch just as it changes to midnight. He walks to the other end of the pool, scanning exits and analyzing threats before a sudden and horribly familiar voice yanks him out of his mind palace. Sherlock whirls around, gun in hand, staring down the barrel at the familiar figure.

            “Miss me?” The figure says, with a twisted grin. He’s short, pale, and has dark hair; all Westwood and death threats and danger. In front of him are two men, identical in appearance, hands tied behind them.  Two John Watsons. Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the scene, trying desperately to understand, gun unwaveringly pointed at James Moriarty.

            “Oh, dear me. Have I rendered the great Sherlock Holmes speechless?” Moriarty asks, with a laugh. “Don’t tell me that my little _disappearing act_ fooled you. I really did think that you would see right through it.”

            Sherlock grits his teeth. “What have you done to John?” He asks, steely.

            “Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, now. I’m afraid that you’re losing your touch, Sherly,” Moriarty responds. “Four cases wrong. Tsk, tsk. Or did your faithful little blogger manipulate the evidence you analyzed?” He asks, with a wicked grin.  “Oh, I’m sorry. _Was_ it your faithful little blogger at all?”

            “What do you want?” Sherlock asks, eyes flashing, hand tightening on the gun.

            “I want you to make a choice, Sherlock. One of these men is your John. The other is a product of blackmailed plastic surgeons and extensive research in facial reconstruction surgery. Completely identical. Quite an accomplishment on my part, I do think.”

            “So I pick the correct John, and you let us walk away?” Sherlock asks, narrowing his eyes.

            “Oh, no, no, no. Don’t be so _boring._ You pick the John that you think is yours, and then you kill the other with that nice little stolen gun of yours.” Moriarty replies, with a sadistic glee. “ _Then_ I let you walk away. But I’m a busy man, Sherlock, so you’ve got ninety seconds to decide. Tick, tock.”

            “And if I refuse?” Sherlock asks, hoping to buy some time.

            “Then my dear replacement for a certain Colonel Moran will shoot both Johns. Eighty seconds,” Moriarty replies, sneering.

            “And if I shoot the wrong one?” Sherlock asks, scanning both over, trying frantically to pick out his John.

            “Oh, that’s the brilliant bit. You’ll never know. He’ll go back to faking it. Seventy-two seconds.”

            Sherlock’s jaw clenches and he searches desperately for any way out of the situation. He mentally goes over exits, likely positions of snipers, and the probability of his John surviving if he does anything other than what he is told.

            “Fifty seconds. Oh, I can barely watch,” the consulting criminal says with a wicked smile as red dots- sniper sights- are trained on both Johns. Sherlock stares at them both, looking for a tell, a sign- anything. He knows the odds. If he disobeys Moriarty in some attempt to rescue them both, John has less than a 3% chance of survival. If he chooses between them, John has a 50% chance of survival.

            “Forty seconds.” Sherlock turns his attention once more to the two John Watsons. The leftmost has been twitching his lower lip to form the phrase SOS in Morse code for the past two minutes, attempting to maintain a steely, calm exterior. The rightmost is looking over at Sherlock, eyes wide and jaw clenched, breathing rapid. They appear completely identical, right down to their clothing, and the dim, flickering lightning in the pool prevents him from seeing any scarring that would give the true John away.

            “Twenty.” Sherlock lowers his gun, staring at them both intently before raising it again, looking down the barrel at the leftmost John, who swallows a lump in his throat and returns Sherlock’s gaze. “Oooh, interesting. Final answer, Sherlock?” Moriarty asks, watching as if this was the best entertainment he’d had in years (it was). Sherlock takes in a deep breath and moves his arm so that the gun is now pointing at the rightmost John.

            “Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four,” Moriarty says, happily. Sherlock swallows a lump in his throat as the other John’s lips part slightly, taking in a shaky breath.

            “Two. One.” Sherlock pulls the trigger, and a loud shot rings out, echoing off the water. The rightmost John crumbles to the ground, his spilt blood and shattered brains spilling onto the tile and into the pool.

            Moriarty laughs. “Not bad, Sherly. You’d make a good sniper.” Sherlock glares at him in response, refusing to look at the broken body of his not-John. The remaining John’s jaw drops, looking from his dead doppelganger to his flat mate. “But a deal’s a deal.” Moriarty shoves the remaining John forward, and he stumbles to Sherlock, limp prominent. “I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock.” And he shrugs before turning and heading toward the exit. “Excellent choice, by the way,” he calls over his shoulder as he pushes the door open, chuckling to himself. “Or was it?”

 

\-----

 

            Sherlock and John stumble out of the building, John leaning heavily on Sherlock, using him as a crutch. Sherlock pulls his mobile out of his pocket, throat dry and hands shaking. He hits the end button on his voice recording application, and sends the file to Mycroft before collapsing on a bench. “Sherlock,” John breathes, sitting next to him, struggling to form a coherent sentence. “It’s me. I’m me. Oh, Christ.” He says, obviously in shock.

            Sherlock looks over at John for a long moment before giving him one terse nod. “I know,” he replies, simply. This has to be his John. He was never wrong about these things: hell, it had been his profession to be right about them for years. This man, this impossible man sitting next to him, is his John. He knows it. There is no alternative. And so for the second time in his life, Sherlock blatantly ignores the obvious. He rejects cold, harsh reality, locks away the small voice of ration in his mind that says there is a 50% chance he just killed John Watson, and substitutes his own reality instead: a reality that is based on false hopes and unfounded faith.

            Within fifteen minutes, a long, black car pulls up, and Sherlock and John are ushered inside before being rushed to the hospital.

 

\-----

 

            Day one after the incident at the pool. Sherlock and John sit across the desk from Lestrade, filling out various forms and answering various questions. John’s blood work is returned from the hospital, and the DNA is confirmed to belong to John Hamish Watson. Every semi-competent officer in the Yard is searching for Moriarty; not that it will do them any good. Sherlock knows that Moriarty will only be caught if he wants to be caught.

            Nevertheless, Sherlock is analyzing every piece of evidence from the pool, staying up late at night throwing books against the wall in frustration, desperately trying to figure out _how_ Moriarty even survived in the first place.

            “Sherlock,” John says with a frown on day twenty after the pool incident. “You need to stop obsessing over this twenty-four seven. Eat some dinner and go to bed, alright?”

            “I can’t just eat dinner and go to bed when I am _this_ -“ Sherlock snaps back, holding up his hand, middle finger and thumb barely apart, -“close to catching Moriarty. I’ve got witnesses, evidence, bills, prior locations, everything I need,” he says, gesturing to the table scattered with files in front of him that he had gone to hell and back to get. “I just need to _observe._ The answer is here.”

            “You’ve been staring at that damned table for a week, Sherlock. Stop. You’re just harming yourself.” John responds, folding his arms.

            “I’ll sleep later. I’ve almost got him. Why can’t I see it?” Sherlock says, the epitome of frustration as he bangs his fist on the table. “Damn it, I’m so _idiotic_ -“ but his sentence is cut off by his mobile ringing. He looks down at it, making a sound of disgust as he sees the caller I.D. He picks it up, hitting the answer key. “What do you want, Mycroft?” He snaps.

            “Temper, temper. I’m going to need you to get into the car outside of your flat immediately, brother dear,” Mycroft says from the other end of the line.

            “I’m _busy_. Go kidnap someone else,” Sherlock responds, and the eldest Holmes sibling sighs in response.

            “Don’t be such a petulant child. We’ve found Moriarty.”

            Sherlock freezes at this, mind slowly comprehending what he’s just been told. “You what?” He asked, tone completely changing.

            “And they call you the genius of the family. It’s rather self-explanatory, Sherlock: We’ve found Moriarty, and he, despite our efforts, refuses to speak to anyone but you, and you alone.”

            Sherlock blinks at this, shock wearing off enough for him to respond as he stands, throwing on his coat. “I’ll be there.”

 

\-----

 

            An hour later, Sherlock finds himself entering an interrogation room in a rather secret government building. The prisoner inhabiting it looks up, and for all the bruises on his face, smiles at him. “Well, well, well. Look who finally came to play.”

            Sherlock crosses over to the table that Moriarty is seated at, resting his clenched fists on it, staring back at the consulting criminal. “We already had all the evidence we need against you, and now you turn yourself in and refuse to say a _word_ to anyone. Why?” He demands, voice low.

            “What makes you think I turned myself in? Maybe the King’s men finally caught up with me,” Moriarty responds.

            “You don’t get _caught_ by your average, run-of-the-mill police officers. No, you planned this out.” Sherlock snaps, earning a low chuckle.

            “Perhaps I did. How’s John? Ooh, bit of a delicate subject, I suppose.” Moriarty replies, gleefully. Sherlock stares back, not warranting this a response. “Seeing as you killed him, and all.”

            Sherlock narrows his eyes, staring at the other man who, as always, proved impossible to read. “I’m not playing your mind games, Moriarty,” he spat. “I know that I made the right decision.”

            “Oh, do you, now?” The consulting criminal responds, amused. “And what makes you so sure of that, DNA reports?” He asks, leaning in. “My network extends far further than you ever thought to dream of, Sherlock. Surely you know that I can fake a few teensy bits of paper.”

            Sherlock straightens up, pacing the room. “What is the point of this?” He spits.

            “What it’s always been, Sherly. To burn the _heart_ out of you. And I think I’m doing an excellent job, don’t you? Just take a look at yourself. Obsessive, ill, solitary, on the brink of driving yourself to insanity. Careful, or you’ll end up just like me.”

            Sherlock crosses over to the other man, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up so that he was an inch off of his chair. “I will _never_ end up like you,” he answers, voice low and dangerous as he drops him back into his seat.

            “For someone so sure of that, you’ve given yourself one hell of a start. What’s it like, I wonder, to murder the only man that you’ve ever truly cared for?”

            “I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock responds.

            “Oh, but we both know that’s not true. You’ve been doubting it, haven’t you? That little nagging voice in the back of your mind, telling you that maybe, just maybe, you shot the wrong man.” Moriarty says with a smile. “So tell me, Sherlock. Are you living with John Watson, or is that man merely a pawn in my game?”

            Sherlock clenches his fists. “I know that I chose the right John,” he insists. “I would bet my life on it.”

            “Ooh,” Moriarty exclaims, straightening up, interest piqued. “That is a bet that I would _love_ to take. Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to do so in quite some time. In roughly thirty seconds, your brother is going to open that door, and a man with a very nice syringe is going to come in, so I’d best wrap this conversation up.” He continues, as if they’re discussing something as trivial as the time of day. “You have a decision to make, Sherlock. Is it a bluff? A triple bluff? You see, I’ve already beaten you, because no matter what you decide, you’ll always wonder,” he said, eyes flashing in amusement. “And oh, there your brother is now. Have fun solving my little puzzle, Sherly.”

 

\-----

 

What happened? Are you alright? Where’s Moriarty? –JW

Irrelevant now. He’s dead. –SH

 

\-----

 

            It’s several weeks later. Sherlock no longer counts the days that pass, but has instead slipped back into his life with John as comfortably as ever. His reputation is once again restored, he’s solving cases faster than ever, and the events of the kidnapping-and-beyond-incident are fading farther and farther into his memory, as if they are a half-forgotten nightmare.  They’re inseparable once more: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the famous Baker Street Boys. Sherlock snickers at this nickname and tosses the newspaper aside, propping his feet up on the table, absentmindedly listening to John putting away various newly purchased groceries. “Will you make tea while you’re in there?” Sherlock calls, and the rustling through various bags stops momentarily.

            “Er, sure,” John responds, and Sherlock can hear him putting the kettle on and opening and closing various cupboards before sighing and popping his head around the corner. “Sherlock, where do we keep the tea bags?”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Major character death, self-harm, substance abuse, mild violence.  
> Notes: I'm really unhappy with the latter half of fic, but the posting period technically ended two hours ago so I suppose it's best to just put it up. Bright-wings, I hope you like it!  
> Shoutout to Lily, Emma, and Laura for putting up with my bitching about this.


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